


Sometimes Startled, Never Surprised

by crookedfingers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blackwatch Era, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Intercrural Sex, Jesse is over 18 But Still, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sparring, age gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 20:45:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7948447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedfingers/pseuds/crookedfingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reyes lowers his weight a little, knees bending, eyes narrowing, and just like that every line of him screams <em>predator</em>. Fresh sweat breaks out on the back of Jesse’s neck, and his legs go stiff with dread.</p><p>(Jesse trains with his commanding officer, but he has his own idea about what it means to win.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes Startled, Never Surprised

**Author's Note:**

> While writing this story, I strove to be as meticulous as Blizzard itself regarding accuracy and canonical consistency, by which I mean *just flips everyone off and somersaults into the bushes*

“Focus on your breathing. You won’t be able to do anything if you can’t fucking breathe.”  
  
Jesse clenches his teeth, breathing hard through his nose. He is seven minutes into a fight, and he hasn’t managed to do more than slide his sweaty hands over Commander Reyes a few times.  
  
They’re together in one of the small practice rooms, the kind with mirrors along one of the walls. The room doesn’t have windows or furniture, just a little bench with their shoes tucked under it, a couple of personal lockers in the corner, and big padded mats covering the center of the room. All Jesse can hear is his own breathing and the thud-thud-thud of his heart.  
  
Twelve weeks ago, Commander Reyes began teaching a grappling classes for recruits. There's a class scheduled every other week, and different instructors rotate in to help with demonstrations. Nearly all the trainees attend. Hand-to-hand combat techniques are interesting and valuable, and it’s a chance for healthy competition between recruits who want to show off, and it’s an opportunity to see Commander Reyes fight. In short, the classes are the highlights of Jesse’s week.  
  
But now it’s been seven weeks since Commander Reyes challenged the entire class to demonstrate what they’d learned against _him_.  
  
Reyes didn’t so much as break a sweat during the demonstration. The class laughed and jeered during the first few matches, and then they stopped laughing. Jesse had never experienced human silence quite like that of covert operations recruits who knew that they’d disappointed their commander. When he tried to sleep that night, his mind played a memory in a loop: Commander Reyes turning his eyes away, his attention already moving onto the next person, while Jesse, winded, picked himself up from the floor. He’d thrown up immediately after class.  
  
The next class was canceled outright, and then the routine changed. On top of the group sessions, Commander Reyes started offering one-on-one lessons: forty minute blocks of time during which he taught how to break out of a triangle choke, or how to blow out someone’s kneecap, or how to pull both an opponent’s arms out of their sockets.  
  
Jesse felt _drunk_ after that first lesson. Reyes told him what to do, and he did it. He did it so well that Reyes complimented him for his dexterity and for keeping his legs from buckling when he was hit, and Reyes _laughed_ when Jesse said something funny. Commander Reyes thought he did a good job.  
  
And then things changed between them. Jesse toed his way up to a line, inch by inch, and then he took a flying leap across it.  
  
The first time: After a mission. Jesse is hard and Reyes knows it. They end up in a dusty corner. Reyes pushes a knee between his legs and lets Jesse grind against his thigh until he comes. They don’t speak at all.  
  
The second time: Jesse gambles on a time and a place and goes right to his knees, saying _please, Commander, let me_. This time Reyes actually touches him directly. After Jesse stands up again, Reyes opens up his pants and takes Jesse’s cock in his hand. He doesn’t stroke—just holds his hand there for Jesse to use—and Jesse jerks his hips until he spills into Reyes’s palm.  
  
Which brings them, now, to this moment. Jesse’s second private lesson. And Reyes isn’t complimenting him now, isn’t laughing at anything, isn’t even telling him what to do. He’s elusive, completely on the defensive, making Jesse instigate every move but countering every attempt to actually grapple with him. It’s the _exact opposite_ of what Jesse wants. He doesn’t want to be the aggressor, he doesn’t want to have to figure this out for himself, and he doesn’t want to spend his whole lesson just chasing Reyes around the room. His head pounds with frustration.  
  
Jesse decides to switch tactics. Try to convince Reyes to come to _him_. He shakes his arms out and straightens up, putting on a big show of losing interest in what they’re doing.  
  
“Why do I even need to know how to do this? We have _weapons_ in the field.”  
  
“Not always,” Reyes says simply.  
  
“Okay, well, I already know how to fight.”  
  
Reyes snorts, sounding neither convinced nor impressed. “The dumb fist fights you’ve gotten into aren’t the same thing. Just being able to throw a punch isn’t going to save you.”  
  
“Well, how’s _this_ supposed to save me? Okay, so, say I fight off one guy durin’ a mission. There’s just gonna be some other guy with a gun who’s gonna fuckin’ _shoot_ me after I wrestle with his buddy.”  
  
“McCree,” Reyes grits out. “You’re doing this because I’m _asking_ you. Do you need another reason?”  
  
Jesse gulps. Maybe the wrong tactical approach.  
  
“ _Do you_?”  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
“That’s what I thought. So come on and fucking _do_ something.”  
  
Reyes lowers his weight a little, knees bending, eyes narrowing, and just like that every line of him screams _predator_. Fresh sweat breaks out on the back of Jesse’s neck, and his legs go stiff with dread. Suddenly, he feels like he’s facing something huge and unfathomable. Something that can’t be reasoned with.  
  
Jesse forces his knees to move so that he can adjust his stance. He can’t freeze up. There’s nothing to be scared of. This is just something the commander can do: change his body language a little and become like a whole different person. But Reyes won’t—won’t _hurt_ him. Right? But Reyes is still on the defensive, not approaching him. Jesse has to be the one to move forward. He sucks in a deep breath and lunges at the commander.  
  
Reyes whirls aside like a matador and jams his hand into Jesse’s back, right over his kidneys, as he passes. The pain makes him stomp one of his feet up and down.  
  
Jesse yelps and skitters to a stop, clutching his side.  
  
“Commander!” he whines, like a big stupid fucking baby.  
  
And that spoils it. Reyes drops his stance and turns away. He heads right for the lockers in the corner.  
  
“Commander?”  
  
“I’m not going to stay if you’re just going to waste my time.”  
  
“Wait!” Jesse breaks into a little jog to make up for the widening distance between them. “Commander!”  
  
Reyes doesn’t stop or slow down or show any indication that he’s even heard anything. When they’re within arm’s length, Jesse reaches out and grabs Reyes’s elbow.  
  
And before he can even _think_ , Reyes has him on the floor with his arms pinned, his legs trapped, and his breath choked off. Jesse thrashes uselessly and only manages to gag himself even more.  
  
“Come on, break it,” Reyes says. His hold tightens incrementally.  
  
Jesse’s mind is blank. He can’t remember the name of this hold, let alone how to break it. But he should know, he should _know_. Reyes would want to make a point; he’d want to make a point of confronting Jesse with something familiar. And a sensory memory bubbles to the front of Jesse’s mind: the quick, labored sound of Anwar Nabi’s breath after Jesse reversed their positions during class. Yes, he knows how to break this hold. He’s done it before. But it won’t work with Reyes: he’s bigger, stronger, calmer. He’s better, and there’s nothing Jesse can do about it.  
  
“Break it!” Reyes says again, giving him a little shake like a ragdoll.  
  
He can’t, he _can’t_. So Jesse turns his head as much as he can and sinks his teeth into Reyes’s upper arm. Reyes shoves him away immediately, like Jesse has venom. Jesse scrambles up into a crouch, gulps in a lungful of air, and then launches himself directly at Reyes. It’s such a stupid move that it actually works, and he manages to get in one, two good hits before Reyes clamps him with his legs. But this time the knowledge of what to do flows directly out of him. He breaks out of Reyes’s hold and comes at him again, landing hard blows with his knees and elbows, using the sharpest parts of his body to strike. Reyes grabs him again; Jesse breaks free again. They roll over and over one another, and Jesse knows that if he doesn’t do something soon, he’s going to miss the window of opportunity to make good on his plan. And so Jesse McCree performs the single stupidest pre-meditated act of his life: he reaches out and grabs Commander Reyes’s dick. He’s wearing a cup for protection, but Jesse gets the best grip he can and squeezes.  
  
Reyes _slaps_ him. Jesse’s hips buck.  
  
Instinctively, both of his hands fly to his face, and Reyes uses the opening to flip Jesse flat onto his back with a knee under his sternum. It becomes harder to breathe.  
  
He hadn’t expected to be slapped. He was counting on some kind of retaliation and had prepared himself for a split lip or a busted nose from a punch. But the slap hurts in a totally different way. It completely numbed his face for a second, but now the skin stings and throbs. Warmth blooms across his cheek and jaw. And the rest of him is going warm, too: his his chest, his belly, his groin. Sweat forms under his arms.  
  
“You have three seconds to tell me what that was about,” Reyes snarls: a rumble like approaching thunder. “And I’d better like your answer.”  
  
Jesse gulps. “Commander,” he says. “I want you to f-f—… Please f-fuck me.”  
  
Reyes’s eyebrows shoot up. Jesse’s scalp goes red hot, and a drop of sweat rolls down his face from his hairline to the back of his neck. That had sounded… better when he’d imagined this moment. More seductive.  
  
“And why,” he begins, “should I do that?”  
  
Jesse can’t believe it. He can’t believe it. Reyes didn’t say _no_. He didn’t bash Jesse’s head into the floor, or knee him in the balls, or throw him out of Blackwatch. Which means… which means that he’s thought about this. Commander Reyes has thought about fucking him. It must be true, or Reyes would have shut down the suggestion on principle alone. This possibility slams into Jesse’s mind with the force of an undeniable truth, an reality as clear as knowing gravity exists even without understanding why.  
  
Since he’s already on a roll of stupidity, Jesse decides _what the Hell_ , he might as well just take the situation for what it’s worth. So he grabs one of Reyes’s hands and guides it between his legs.  
  
Reyes snatches his hand back, and he makes a motion like he's going to slap Jesse again - and then he just smacks his open palm against the mat, right beside Jesse’s ear. Jesse flinches at the sound.  
  
“Exactly how do you think this is going to play out? You think I’ve been just waiting to fuck you? You think I’ve got lube?”  
  
“I - I don’t need lube.”  
  
“McCree,” Reyes rumbles, leaning closer. “I don’t give a fuck how much of a masochist you are. That’s not a choice you get to make.”  
  
“No, I mean— Before I came here, I, uh… I, uh…”  
  
Reyes leans back and just looks at him for five entire seconds. He puts the pieces together. “You fingered yourself?”  
  
Jesse opens his mouth to speak. He can’t. He nods.  
  
“You desperate little cocksucker,” Reyes breathes, and Jesse’s dick twitches. “Get on your stomach.”  
  
Reyes backs off him so he can move again, and Jesse flounders to comply. He places himself on his hands and knees, head down, and tries to breathe normally. Reyes hooks his fingers into the waistband of Jesse’s sweatpants and pulls everything down around his knees all at once. He puts one hand on Jesse’s ass, spreading him open. Reyes presses against him with the tip of his thumb, and Jesse feels some of the lube slip out of him.  
  
“Is this why you wouldn’t fucking fight? Trying to keep all this inside?”  
  
Jesse nods. His hair swings against his eyes.  
  
“Fucking unbelievable. You got a condom?”  
  
“Uh. Er… no.”  
  
“Then I'm not going to fuck you.”  
  
Jesse’s mouth goes dry and his throat tightens. “Please—” he tries again.  
  
“Be quiet,” Reyes says, and then he pushes two fingers in.  
  
Jesse jolts and tilts himself forward—away—before he can stop himself. Reyes plants a hand on the small of his back and presses. He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t force Jesse down or press very hard, but Jesse goes absolutely still and compliant.  
  
“Spread your legs,” Reyes says.  
  
Jesse spreads his legs. Reyes rocks his hand forward, sinking his fingers in all the way to the knuckle. Jesse’s mouth falls open. He thought he knew what to expect, but Reyes doesn’t have to fight against the angle like Jesse did when he did this to himself: Reyes’s fingers just push and push and push, as deep as he can reach. And when they start to withdraw, Jesse actually hiccups on a hysterical little noise. More lube trickles out of him and runs down his balls.  
  
“You thought I was going to shove my dick in you?” Reyes growls. “You thought I’d fuck you if you just offered your ass like this? You haven’t _earned the privilege_.”  
  
Jesse says, “Mmuh.” It’s the best he can do. He can barely process the questions, let alone articulate an answer. His mind catches on a loop. All he can hear is Commander Reyes saying _fuck you, fuck you, fuck you_ in a voice straight out of his fantasies.  
  
“Well, McCree, allow me to clarify: if I ever want to fuck you, then that’s what’ll happen. Anytime, anywhere. So you’d better stop thinking about what _you_ want and start worrying about what _I_ want.”  
  
Jesse feels him adjusting his hand, and when Reyes pushes forward again, Jesse knows that it’s with three fingers instead of two. His breath stutters. He feels like he's on the verge of a nosebleed: blood pounding behind his face, a hot feeling somewhere between his eyes.  
  
“Am I understood?” Reyes asks.  
  
“Yes,” Jesse chokes out.  
  
“Yes, what?”  
  
“Yes, Com- Commander.”  
  
“Good. Now keep your knees apart and be quiet.”  
  
So Jesse spreads his legs wider and tries not to make any noise as Reyes opens him up around his hand.  
  
By the time Reyes eventually works a fourth finger into him, Jesse’s arms have collapsed. He’s down on his face, his shoulders and chest bracing his weight; his fingers dent top of the mat. Thanks to the position, he’s fucking _drooling_ on himself, saliva pooling under his cheek and chin. He’s trying to stay quiet, but Reyes drives little _uh, uh, uh_ sounds out of him with every push of his hand. But he could _scream_ and it wouldn’t make a difference. The practice rooms are sound-proof, and no one— _no one_ —intrudes on rooms Commander Reyes has reserved without permission.  
  
But how much longer do they have? How long have they been like this? He _hurts_ with the need to get off, and he’ll fucking die if they have to stop before he’s finished.  
  
He gasps. “Commander, can I, can I touch myself?”  
  
“I’m not stopping you.”  
  
It’s as much permission as he needs. Jesse reaches between his legs and pumps gracelessly at his cock, dripping wet. He feels the build up of tension, knows it’s not going to take him long—and then the movement of his arm makes pain lance between his neck and shoulder. His neck has gone stiff from being bent against the floor; he shifts around to ease the discomfort. And that’s when he turns his head and sees himself in the mirrored wall. He sees himself with his legs open and his eyelashes stuck together in damp clumps, bent over for Commander Reyes. And he sees Commander Reyes kneeling there over him, eyes dark, arm pistoning, and all of Reyes's attention is focused entirely on _him_.  
  
Jesse comes so hard that his body pulls itself into a rigid arch. His knees actually leave the floor as his legs cramp, suspending all his weight on a bridge supported by his feet and his forehead. His own come spatters onto his chest and the underside of his jaw.  
  
Then he collapses flat, shaking.  
  
Reyes’s fingers leave him, and Jesse lies there, wrung out beyond all thought or feeling. He gasps for air.  
  
Then he’s upright again, on his knees. Jesse blinks, astonished at this miracle of transportation. How did it happen?  
  
Oh, Commander Reyes’s hands are there under his arm and around his shoulder.  
  
“Keep your legs together,” Reyes says. His mouth is right next to Jesse’s ear. The hair on the back of Jesse’s neck rises.  
  
He looks down at his knees, red from rubbing against the mat. He wills them to move together.  
  
Reyes slings an arm around the top of his chest from shoulder to shoulder and pulls him back, and Reyes’s cock presses between his thighs, and Jesse blurts, “fuck, oh, _fuck_.” His legs are slippery with spilled lube, and Reyes’s cock slides right against his balls. Reyes rocks his hips forward, and he rocks Jesse back against him, and Jesse could just about _cry_ with sheer want. He chews on his lips to stifle the noises he’s making and squeezes the base of his own dick to keep himself from getting hard again as Reyes fucks his thighs.  
  
He doesn’t know how long it takes Reyes to come. Jesse just lolls against him until it happens, trapped in counterbalance between Reyes’s body and the arm that holds in him in place. His entire bodily awareness is centered on the feeling of Reyes’s cock moving against him and how fucking much he wants Reyes to bend him over and split him open. Reyes just breathes through his nose and drills forward with his hips. When Reyes comes between his legs, all Jesse can do is groan softly like someone in the grips of fever.  
  
Reyes pulls away from him afterward, and Jesse sinks to his hands and knees. After awhile he mechanically pulls his clothes back into place. Their training outfits are made to absorb blood and sweat—and probably spit and piss and whatever else—without soaking through or stinking, so he probably won’t smell too bad despite the mess on… most of his lower body. He even remembers to flip up the bottom of his shirt and wipe the underside of his chin. His hands are shaking.  
  
When he looks, Reyes is completely dressed and almost bored looking. But he’s frowning slightly at something, and Jesse follows the line of his gaze. He’s looking at the surface of the mat, at the puddles of drool and lube and ribbons of come. Reyes jerks his chin when he sees that he’s gotten Jesse’s attention.  
  
“This is your mess. Clean it up.”  
  
Is Reyes expecting him to… lick it up? Jesse looks down at the mat; he looks at Commander Reyes. Then he slowly bends his elbows to lower himself down. Before he can get close to the floor, Reyes grabs him by the shoulder and hauls him back again.  
  
“Get the fucking disinfectant, McCree,” he groans. “It’s in the left locker.”  
  
Jesse levers himself up and stumbles his way across the room, face burning. It’s a difficult journey: his legs are quivery and half numb, and his back has stiffened up. Reyes is just standing there, unmoving, when Jesse gets back. Jesse kneels, gingerly, and spritzes the surface of the mat. The disinfectant bubbles on contact, and then the liquid turns opaque and expands into a dense white foam, like meringue. A moment later the foam begins to break up and evaporate into the air, leaving behind a faintly woodsy smell. (The bottle describes the scent as “balsam fir.”)  
  
“Give me that.”  
  
Jesse passes the disinfectant, and Reyes sprays some directly onto his hands. He scrubs them together and works the foam in between his fingers before it dissipates. Then he says, “You’re out of time here.”  
  
Jesse says, “Oh.”  
  
“You earned a ‘fail’ on this lesson. I expect you to do better next time.”  
  
Jesse stares at the wall. “Okay,” he says, hoarsely.  
  
“I’m fucking serious. Hey, look at me. Look here.” Jesse meets Reyes’s eyes reluctantly. “You can do better. You need to do better. If you don’t, you’re going to die. You’re going to get yourself killed. Hey, look.”  
  
Reyes pulls down his lower eyelid and tilts his head so that Jesse can see the red bloom of burst blood vessels where Jesse had smashed an elbow into his eye socket. The surrounding skin is starting to turn purple and shiny with the beginnings of a black eye.  
  
“You’ve got good reflexes—when you can keep your head. But the dumb shit you pull off isn’t going to help you against a professional. I could’ve snapped your fucking neck five different times. Don’t waste class time with your bullshit stunts.”  
  
“Yes, Commander,” Jesse mumbles.  
  
“I’m scheduling you for the same time next week, and you’d better prove that you fucking learned something in the meantime.”  
  
Jesse opens his mouth. He doesn’t say anything.  
  
“Now get the fuck out of here. I’ve still got this room booked for someone else.”  
  
“Yes, Commander.”  
  
Jesse collects the duffel bag holding his uniform and puts on his shoes. He glances back once more before he walks out the door: Reyes has his back turned and is stretching out his shoulders with some simple exercises. But as he turns away, he catches Reyes’s eye in the mirror. The Commander is watching Jesse’s reflection. Jesse opens his mouth again—and then he just yanks the door open and bolts into the hall.  
  
He makes it six steps in the direction of the showers before he has to lean against the wall and collect himself. He braces his hands on his quivery knees and sucks in big mouthfuls of air. He’s still like that when Philippa Ludoviko comes around the corner with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She stops immediately when she sees Jesse.  
  
“That bad today, huh?” She gives Jesse a hard, appraising look. “If he’s already pissed off because of you, I’m going to kick your ass later.”  
  
Jesse straightens his back and matches the bluntness of her expression. “I’m mighty flattered you think I can change the Commander’s mood,” he says, drawl seeping back to the surface, “but blamin’ me for anythin’ that goes wrong won’t help you improve.”  
  
Philippa’s mouth curls; she barrels past him, straight for the practice room. But before she can open the door, Jesse clears his throat to catch her attention again. “If you’re lookin’ for anyone to practice with before the next class, I’d be glad to spar a bit.”  
  
“Oh.” Philippa’s expression is closed off now; she’s not sure how to interpret his offer. What’s his motive? Is he mocking her, asking her for help, hitting on her? He’s not the newest recruit any more, but he’s still one of the young. What kind of help could _he_ possibly offer? “I’ll keep that in mind.”  
  
Jesse tips his chin and resumes his walk toward the showers. He hears the practice room door open and close behind him. He finds himself grinning: a slow, wicked, private grin. Philippa might just take his suggestion more seriously after she sees that he’s left Commander Reyes with a black eye.

* * *

  


**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank [captainneedsnosleep](https://captainneedsnosleep.tumblr.com) for the incredible piece of fanart included above! If you'd like to view/reblog/like the original piece on tumblr, you can find it [here](https://captainneedsnosleep.tumblr.com/post/176879936999/high-quality-fics-should-be-promoted-properly)!


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